


Forget Me Not

by artemisgrace



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel), DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Rape/Non-con, Permanent Injury, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-19 22:04:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7379131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artemisgrace/pseuds/artemisgrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aoba and Clear left for Platinum Jail, and never came back. Their attempt to save the island having obviously failed, Mink takes it into his own hands. But in Platinum Jail, both Clear and Aoba live, if it can be called living. Mink had thought himself beyond pity, but he can't stop himself from caring for the fragile shell that he knew as Aoba.<br/>Post- Clear's bad end fix it</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. White Walls

He still sees it when he closes his eyes, as if it were branded to the insides of his eyelids, that tiny dark room. He’d seen horrors before, lived his own terrors, a life of indescribable violence, and yet that that room lingers on his mind even now, such was the sight he’d witnessed. 

Mink had achieved his goal of this lifetime, to kill the man who’d massacred his tribe, he had no other ambitions, nothing to fear at all. He was in no rush as be began planting explosives in the Oval Tower. Having defeated his enemy, there was nothing left to do but destroy his enemy’s legacy, reduce it to rubble. Nothing could be a more fitting end. And that was what it was to be: an end. And at last, peace. He’d return to his ancestors, this life over. 

A calm had filled him as he walked those white, sterilized walls. His journey was almost at end, and he could finally see serenity as something real, almost tangible. Serenity walking with him on his way out of this world.

Until it abandoned him, in a single blow. A doorway and a staircase leading down. A terrible sinking in his gut. A vile familiarity. 

His steps echoed hollowly as he descended, and that hollowness was reflected his own chest. He’d seen this place before. These were the dungeons of Oval Tower, though Toue had never called them that; officially they were “housing” for the experimental subjects, as if these dank rooms were any sort of hospitality. More so than the dungeons themselves, in which he had been a guest for many years, he was enraged by those ridiculous harmless euphemisms that Toue so frequently employed. Hiding behind those lies, nothing sickened him more. If one must be monstrous, one might as well be honest about it. To not be so strayed beyond monstrosity, into something that Mink had no words to describe. 

Bile rose in Mink’s throat and he could smell a metallic tang on the stale air. He suppressed a shiver that threatened to make its way down his spine, steeling himself to look upon his worst memories once again. Peering down a row of barred cells, the very thing that Mink had been dreading most caught his eye, and his heart sank. Movement. There was life down here. What wretched creature would it be, living in agony behind bars? Mink had been that wretch once. His heart thundered in his chest in a way he would not have thought it still could, at the thought of meeting this poor soul. This poor soul who, but for the grace of god, would be him. 

He had thought himself beyond such sentiment before he descended the stairs, but now, in this dismal place, feelings he thought to have crushed long ago rose again to become cramps in his stomach and adrenaline in his veins. 

And there was something living here. He would have to do something about it now that he knew. He wished, in a secret shameful part of his heart, that he didn’t know. That he could continue on in ignorance, in bliss. He pushed down his dread and moved slowly forward, approaching the cell in which he had seen movement, his steps seeming louder than they ought to be, echoing down the hall of cells. 

Looking in, he couldn’t at first place what he was seeing. Behind the bars, he saw a sterile room, white walls, white floor, a bed with white sheets in the corner. At first, he didn’t notice that there was someone there, he didn’t recognize the shape of a person in the bundle of sheets on the floor by the bed. It had seemed just a pile of rumpled cloth. But it was a person. There was something wrong with them, the shape wasn’t right . . . He moved closer and his blood froze. A face peeked out of the sheet, blindfolded, pale and emaciated, but familiar, under all too memorable blue locks. 

“Aoba?”

He hadn’t seen the boy since he had left with the bizarre gas mask-wearing man, many months ago. When they never returned, and Toue began to move ahead with his plans to exert his control on the inhabitants of the island, Mink’s limited patience had run out and he had decided to take Toue down himself and get the revenge he so sorely craved.  
He hadn’t expected to see Aoba again. Not here, not in this evil place. Not as this starving body, lying on a cold floor. And there was something much more obviously wrong, something that, at first, in its sheer horror, had failed to register fully in Mink’s mind. Aoba’s legs ended at mid-thigh. He could see the outline under the sheet, where the cloth did not drape over the shape of a limb, but lay sickeningly flat.

No answer came to Mink’s call, but Aoba shuffled in his place on the floor, freeing his arms of the sheet and pulling himself closer to the bars through which Mink watched him. His arms were so thin, his bones like bird bones, Mink thought. Aoba’s head turned and his far too delicate hands clutched the bars. Perhaps he could hear Mink on the other side, though he hadn’t answered. Apart from him, there didn’t seem to be anyone else down there, nothing else for Aoba to have heard. Unless . . .  
Mink heard it now too. Footsteps. They weren’t coming from the stairs Mink had taken down to the dungeon, but from the other end of Aoba’s cell, on the other side of the wall in which Mink now noticed a door. He hadn’t recognized it as a door before, just a panel in a wall, no doorknob or window, but upon careful observation, he could now see hinges. Who could be coming through that door? He had thought the facility now empty. 

The door began to swing open and Mink quickly stepped to the side, just to the right of the cell. From there he was hidden from whoever had entered the cell, but he could still see Aoba’s hands on the bars. A voice rang out in the silent, empty space, and Mink witnessed Aoba’s fingers tightening his grip on the bars, his knuckles white.  
“Aoba-san,” came a sing- song call, a voice that Mink recognized. The gas mask man, Clear.

What could he be doing here? If Aoba had been reduced to this sad state, where had Clear been? Was he here now to save him? Or had he been on Toue’s side all along? Mink hadn’t trusted him, he hadn’t trusted anyone, but he had thought Clear quite strange. Strange, but not exactly threatening. He was too much like a child, harmless.  
But Aoba’s reaction, the hands tightening on the bars . . . that was not the body language of someone hearing their rescuer. 

He told himself he should turn away, this was not part of the plan, he didn’t have to concern himself with it, but his body wouldn’t let him leave. This world no longer concerned him, the fates of others were none of his business, he knew, and yet . . . Just then a white-gloved hand reached out to pull Aoba’s own hand away from the bars.  
“Aoba-san, you are so beautiful,” crooned Clear’s voice.

Beautiful? The boy was a skeleton, he had no legs, he was in dire need of medical care. Beautiful is the last thing that would come to any sane mind. Any sane mind. Clear was obviously not sane. This wasn’t the Clear he had met at all. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. 

Mink heard a small weak gasp and from his hiding place, he saw a few droplets of blood splash onto the cold white floor. He didn’t even plan to reveal himself, he had no thought to fight, no thought of being a savior, but his body again betrayed him. He had convinced himself that this mortal coil held no fear nor passion for him, but he saw blood and he felt adrenaline surge in his veins, and before he could think, he was in front of the bars, his knife and gun both in hand.

In the moment before he fired, Mink saw Aoba’s face, contorted in pain, Clear whispering in his ear, the arm that Clear had pulled from the bars dripping red, and a smear of red across Clear’s gently smiling face. Horrific. There was no hesitation when he pulled the trigger. 

The shot took Clear in the chest, the force of new weapons technology sending him backwards a few feet, like a rag doll being thrown, limbs flopping lifelessly as he landed hard. Smoke rose from the body and the smell of burnt flesh filled the dead air. Quite thoroughly dispatched. Mink then took aim at the bars of the cell on the opposite end from Aoba, a few blasts creating a hole large enough for Mink to enter.

Bending through the gap, Mink could see that Aoba had slumped against the bars, quite probably unconscious, though the fragile husk that he was, it was difficult to tell the difference between consciousness, unconsciousness, and death. And to think that earlier today, he had thought himself beyond foolish sentiment like pity . . . 

Movement in the corner of his eye startled him. Clear’s corpse was moving. It was no corpse. It could not be alive, and yet it moved, and that voice, now hideously distorted, called out “Aoba-san,” before it took another shot from Mink’s weapon. But this time, Clear didn’t even fall. He was expecting the impact now. Mink, on his own part, was horrified to see, among melted gobs of flesh and burned clothing, gears and wires. Metal. A fucking robot.


	2. Bird Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mink fights the monster that was Clear, and has some unsettling realizations about himself.

For a moment, much to his dismay, Mink could do nothing but stare, as the mechanized monster advanced on himself and Aoba, still crooning Aoba’s name in that harsh, metallic voice. Mink had more than one thread of unflappable woven into the tapestry of his personality, he prided himself on his nerves of steel, but this was beyond anything he’d seen before, indeed, beyond anything he had imagined, even in his darkest moments. He never would have had the vile creativity to come up with such a bizarre monstrosity, and he shuddered to think of the mind that must have done so.

His shock, however, was fleeting and his resolve returned to him as he raised his gun again. This creature was clearly possessed of a strength far beyond that of any human born, but he sincerely doubted anything, however sturdy, could survive if he were to choose to empty the cartridge. 

So he did, he squeezed his trigger and did not stop, as bright flashes of light washed over the cell walls with each blast, and more and more of the human guise fell from Clear in molten gobs and burning cloth. An acrid smell began to fill the room, a stench like burnt plastic and hot iron, as the advancing skeleton of steel at last began to stagger, and collapse.

It thrashed on the now scorched floor as it fell, as if trying to continue forward by crawling, even as its arms disconnected and clanked as they hit the ground, as its head lolled and jaw opened, as if even now, it wished to call for the wretched creature folded up behind Mink.

“Ao . . . ba . . . sa . . nnn . . .”

It gurgled out the name again, the sound making Mink’s stomach turn, before ceasing movement for good. To be on the safe side, Mink fired a round or two more into the still form. He didn’t think he could bear it if it were to move again. Artificial human life, especially such a gruesome facsimile, was against everything his tradition had taught him. No matter how far removed physically he was from his homeland, no matter how he strayed, he still carried it with him, and what he had seen here, in this place, he knew to be wrong to the core. 

And yet he remembered the Clear he had met. Had he been this beast then, in a clever disguise? But the silly man in the gas mask had seemed far from clever, rather, childish and a bit simple. He had seemed . . . like someone who had a soul.

To look at Aoba, he had been though a hell on earth, his body transformed, mutilated, so perhaps it was not so absurd to think that Clear, who had come here with him, had been through it too. Perhaps the monster Mink had just destroyed had not always been. If there was a soul in that body, Mink had a duty. He had already visited all the vengeance he could upon this creature, if there was any further judgement to be visited upon it, that would be up to God. And if there was no judgement to be visited, if this thing was meant for heaven, Mink had to be sure that it could get there.

He bent, his dreadlocks falling down over his shoulders to frame his face, down toward the mass of metal, wires, and charred artificial skin, casting his eyes over what remained of Clear’s face. Most of the skin had gone, revealing smoke-dulled metal beneath, and his white hair had been mostly singed off, but for a few grey clumps still hanging on. The eyes were intact, eyes that Mink had never looked into before, for they were always concealed by a gasmask. The horrible gleam that had shone in them from the moment he entered the dismal cell was there no longer, replaced by something blank, calm, sad.

It took little effort to remove the head from the body. After the blasts, it was only hanging on by a wire or two, easily cut by Mink’s hunting knife. If the creature had a soul, it would be there, hidden behind its eyes, and Mink could conduct the proper rites to send it, if it indeed existed, to heaven or hell, whichever way it was destined to go.

Strands of singed hair and flakes of artificial skin fell away as Mink lifted the metallic skull, and the considered it for a moment, held at his eye level, before moving to place it in the bag he had brought to carry the explosives. He would follow his tradition. Toue was dead, but Aoba was alive, and he had responsibilities now. His plans were already disrupted, for how long he couldn’t say, and he could afford to do the right thing.  
There was another thing he had to do, the right thing, but something that filled him with dread, and that dread filled him with shame. He steeled himself to turn to Aoba and look upon him again, his stomach sinking all the same.

Horror he could handle, violence he could stomach, but that small figure, far too small, filled him with such terrible sadness and pity. He knew for himself that it’s harder for the survivors. With death, suffering ends, but surviving, despite the hope that exists while there is life, mostly means the suffering will continue. 

And Aoba was sure to suffer still. Mink, if for only a moment, considered leaving him here, letting him die quickly, instantaneously, as the tower blew to pieces. As it was, Aoba would likely die from his injuries, and even if they did heal, his mind would undoubtedly be terribly scarred, it was more than possible that he would never come back to this world, for he was already halfway into the next. Mink shook his head, dislodging that shameful thought from his mind. If Aoba were to die, he had the right to die in comfort, not alone and cold on a hard floor in his personal hell. Mink had a duty. In the back of his mind, he had to admit, he wasn’t entirely innocent in what horrors had happened here. And hadn’t this whole endeavor been about making amends? He would save this boy, even if it only meant he’d die in a safe place. Then, his duties fulfilled, Mink could be free to follow. 

Mink wasn’t one to cry. He hadn’t done so since the day that he lost his family, first out of shock, and then out of sheer determination, a force of will, but he felt that tightness in his chest, that precursor to tears, as he knelt down on the chilly surface, beside Aoba. He hadn’t seen someone he could think of as more tragic than himself before, in all this time, but this sad, still form surpassed tragedy as Mink had known it. He reached his hand forward with extreme caution, uncertain, but the boy gave no response, even as Mink gently touched his shoulder. He was out to the world. Some small mercy, Mink supposed, as picking Aoba up to take him from this place, wounded as he was, was bound to hurt.

Mink wrapped the sheet Aoba had been sitting in a little more securely around his body. He hadn’t noticed before, but the poor child was naked apart from the white, heavily bleach-scented sheet. He tucked it around Aoba gently, to give him what dignity he could.

Putting his arms around Aoba’s small body, he lifted him gently, and oh god, but he was so hideously light. Bird bones, hollow, Mink thought for a second time, so terribly brittle.

Mink remembered, his eyes beginning to burn, the first time he’d met this boy. He had abducted him, hurt him, terrified him, and for what? To bring out the demon in this child shell, the one he had been certain was there, hiding, certain he could control, the one that could bring him his revenge. But there was no demon here. This fragile, papery skin held no such evil power, these hollow bones held no malice. Mink had been so terribly wrong.  
Standing up, he cradled the prone Aoba to his chest, feeling the terrible chill of Aoba's pale skin through his shirt. It wasn’t just the sheets that reeked of disinfectant, the boy did too, as if he’d been bathed in it, saturated by it, and the smell burned in Mink’s nose. Leaning his head down as he would in prayer, Mink touched his forehead to the tangled blue hair on Aoba’s chilled, blindfolded head. 

“God forgive me,” he whispered, “he’s only a kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mink, you sentimental fool.


	3. The Good Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mink takes Aoba in search of medical care, reestablishing contact with an old acquaintance.

Aoba didn’t wake up. 

Or at least, Mink couldn’t tell if he had. Consciousness and unconsciousness looked rather the same on Aoba’s pale, expressionless face. The boy looked like death. Mink several times had to stop in his tracks and carefully reach his hand into the sheet to feel Aoba’s breath on his fingertips. He breathed still, even if each breath was but a light puff, not enough even to make his chest visibly expand. He seemed to carry the chill of his cell with him, within him, even now that he’d been brought out into the warm summer sunlight, still cold to the touch and as white as if he’d been bleached along with the sheet enfolding him.

Mink carried Aoba away from the tower, his steps gentle so as not to jostle the injured boy too much, but with a determined air about them, as he retreated to a safe distance before detonating the explosives he’d planted about the building, holding Aoba wrapped snugly in the sheet, one arm holding him up and the other cradling his head, as Aoba didn’t seem able to hold it up on his own. He covered the boy’s ear as the blast sounded throughout Platinum Jail, likely to be heard across the whole of Midorijima, and he felt a light tremor run through the fragile body in his arms at the noise, though Aoba still didn’t seem to have woken. 

The legacy of Mink’s most hated enemy vanished in a single moment, the symbol of his power falling to the ground in a mass of rubble, bent and tangled rebar, and shattered glass. The adjacent buildings, once gleaming, much in the fashion of Platinum Jail, were dulled, covered in a layer of fine concrete dust. Good. Most appropriate. 

And somewhere, underneath the ruins, lay the body of Clear. Mink still couldn’t be sure how to feel about that. The rightness or wrongness of his actions would have to be determined later, if Aoba ever woke and could tell to Mink his and Clear’s story. But that was often the way, Mink considered, history would decide what was right and what was wrong long after the fact. Those of us who acted in the present, who struggled and strived in the moment, could only guess. We can only do our best. 

Of course, it wasn’t just Clear down there under the dust. There were others, experiments of Toue’s labs, wretched things spending their lives behind glass, never having known any amount of freedom or privacy, confined to life support systems turned prisons. Mink had destroyed them. Freed them, as they could never otherwise have been free. He was certain that they were now in a better place. Heaven would be much more hospitable to them than this earth ever was. Mink regretted that it had to be done, but he didn’t regret doing it.

He considered calling upon his gang contacts to get himself and Aoba a ride, but decided against it. His plans may have been forcibly changed by unforeseen circumstances, but when he’d left his men, he had meant that to be the last time, and he thought it best if he kept it that way. He still had no intention to stick around, no sense in spoiling a clean break. Besides, Aoba was hardly much of a burden to bear, terribly light as he was, as Mink walked with him in his arms down the now mostly empty streets of Platinum Jail, out of the now unguarded gates and into more familiar territory. It may have been dirty, the streets narrow and littered with abandoned soda and beer cans, and an abundance of cigarette butts, graffiti decorating all available wall space, layered over and under with weathered posters for clubs and concerts, but to Mink it was much more hospitable than the clean and orderly Platinum Jail. The rest of Midorijima was so much more . . . real. Platinum Jail was just one big lie, a pretty, cruel façade. A fake. Mink couldn’t stand the lie of it. He had admittedly been a monster in his time, he had been unkind, cruel even, himself, but at least, he told himself, he had been honest about it. That was better than lying. A less monstrous way of being a monster.

Aoba shifted slightly in his arms, startling Mink and pulling him back from his thoughts. A glance downward confirmed that Aoba still slept, or at least seemed to. He had only shifted in his slumber. It wasn’t much further to their destination, the island wasn’t exactly large and it could be crossed in its entirety in a single day. It wouldn’t be far to the easily overlooked door at the end of a dark, dirty alley, the place of business of a man Mink knew well from his Scratch days, a doctor who made discretion his trademark and his business. 

The dirty alley and the equally disreputable door at the end of it, with absolutely no signage to indicate what lay behind it, was deceiving. The doctor actually ran an immaculate establishment, the rival of any official hospital to be found on Midorijima, and in fact probably cleaner, as this quiet private practice was not nearly so underfunded as the island’s official facilities. His clientele tended more towards the illegally inclined, but far from short on cash. As the unscrupulous often are. And, much to the doctor’s own advantage and the gratitude of his patients, he didn’t look too closely at where the money he was paid with came from. It would spend just fine, whatever the channels it had taken to come to him.

Such an attitude suited Mink’s purposes well. He couldn’t take Aoba to a proper hospital for care, not if he was to be sure that the news wouldn’t get back to any of Toue’s cronies who may have still been hanging around. With Toue so recently deceased, it was probable his network hadn’t yet disbanded and fled the island. And Aoba’s injuries . . . they weren’t exactly something he could explain away if asked. What could he even say? The local law would most certainly become involved, and Mink had made it a personal policy of his to avoid police involvement at all times. No matter how corrupt the island’s police force was, getting into shit with them couldn’t end well. He could count on this doctor to ask no uncomfortable questions, and cause no trouble.

Approaching the door to the doctor’s office, a door more akin to a bunker’s entrance than that of a business, built of sturdy metal, now a bit rusted, and sporting the little hatch at eye level more characteristic of a 1920’s speak-easy in films Mink had seen. A bit of a cliché, in his mind, not exactly tasteful and bordering a bit on silly, but, he had to admit, effective enough. 

He didn’t dare free up a hand in order to knock, lest he drop his delicate charge, so he swung a heavy boot at the door in a hard kick. It reverberated with a resounding clanging upon impact, echoing down the alley like ripples in water, and causing Aoba to shift restlessly again in Mink’s hold. He stroked the head of the sheet-wrapped bundle soothingly with a large, calloused hand before he could think about it, but he caught himself just in advance of the quiet hushing sound waiting to escape his lips, remaining instead the silent and stoic persona he preferred to project. Aoba probably wasn’t even conscious, and wouldn’t benefit from such actions on Mink’s part. Besides, the man who would shortly open the door may have been a doctor, but he was still a member of the criminal underworld of Midorijima, and not one in front of whom it was wise to show weakness. No honor among thieves, and all that. 

As the last echoes of Mink’s assault on the door faded, the classic speak-easy hatch slid open with a shrieking of metal, and a pair of eyes peered out upon Mink and his white bundle, before the hatch slid closed suddenly with another loud clang. The door was then opened with a great squealing of hinges by a short, wiry man in his late fifties, with a face of a most forgettable nature, but eyes as sharp as flint. The good doctor. 

The doctor didn’t go by any other name, he wasn’t in the business of names, more the business of anonymity, a much safer and more profitable enterprise. His patients addressed him simply as “Doctor,” or “sir.” It paid, even for the toughest, roughest street thug, to be respectful of his doctor. Men who had never in their lives called a man “sir,” not their fathers, teachers, nor bosses, even they called the good doctor “sir.” Whatever blow it may have been to their misguided sense of pride, they understood well that it was worth it to be on the good side of the surgeon, should they have to go under the knife, as all the rough men of the streets eventually did. 

Mink gave a respectful nod of acknowledgement at the older man’s appearance, and in response, the doctor stepped aside silently to allow Mink and the shrouded Aoba entry. The door closed again with its characteristic squeal of protesting metal, a lock now visible on this side of the door being slid back into place by the old man’s nimble hands. 

The surroundings were spotless, if a bit run down, as clean as a building this old could conceivably get, Mink noted, pleased. Well-lit and smelling lightly of lemon-scented cleaning fluid, the room contained little furniture, just an old metal chair, frankly hard as rock and thoroughly uncomfortable, a stool and desk for the doctor, and an examination table for his patients to sit or lie upon.

The doctor, still silent, as was his general policy, strode quickly over to his desk, retrieving a piece of paper on a clipboard and sitting down upon his stool, swiveling on the stool to look towards Mink expectantly. Mink, having been a patient himself a time or two, and having carried one of his men in here to be treated more than once, could cut directly to the chase, no introduction or instruction necessary. He moved over to the examination table, gently setting the bundle of sheets down upon it, and carefully pulling the sheet away to reveal the pale, emaciated upper body of Aoba. Mink left the sheet around his waist, thinking he’d let Aoba have what dignity he could, at least until the doctor needed to examine the area. It was obvious, nevertheless, that Aoba didn’t have the typical number of limbs, in the way the sheet hung flat over the table’s edge.

The doctor’s eyebrows raised at the sight, most uncharacteristically. The rest of his face remained immobile, but Mink, familiar as he was with the man, could tell that he was shocked. Mink couldn’t blame him. This wasn’t quite the doctor’s usual diet of common stabbings and beatings, the expected accompaniments gang violence. Not remotely. Moments went by with neither party moving or speaking, until at last the doctor let his voice be heard, a gravelly voice, but clear and calm. 

Mink suspected his voice hadn’t always been like that. Combined with a scar that seemed to be a burn, which Mink had once observed on the good doctor’s forearm, Mink suspected smoke inhalation to be the culprit. Perhaps that was what prompted him to start up this less-than-official practice. It was, still, the voice of a man in charge, not to be ignored. And not to be kept waiting. 

“Is there anything that I need to know before I begin? Any medical history I should be aware of?” The doctor spoke coolly, professional to a fault. 

“He’s missing both legs, sir” Mink answered concisely. “Surgical removal. I don’t know what’s wrong with his eyes. I know nothing of his medical history besides the obvious.” 

Mink hadn’t dared to remove the blindfold from Aoba’s thin face. Given the state of the rest of him, Mink had feared what he might find. That discovery would be best left to the doctor.

The doctor glanced away from the sad figure had been carefully observing as it lay there on the table, his slate grey eyes flicking back to Mink, and nodded sharply. 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite so exciting as the previous two chapters, I'm aware, but don't fret, things pick up real soon ;) This chapter was going to be much, much longer, so I figured it'd be best to separate it into two. So, chapter four should be coming along right quick.


	4. In The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doctor doesn't have good news, that Mink could handle . . . but not the first words Aoba speaks since his rescue. Those . . . they made Mink want to cry.

It was worse than he had known. Mink felt sick to his stomach, bile rose in his throat and he could feel a cold sweat running down his spine as the doctor revealed horror upon horror, that had all been visited upon Aoba’s fragile form at the tower. He averted his eyes, staring at the cupboard intently, for the single purpose of avoiding seeing Aoba’s scarred, mangled, naked form. He had been right to hesitate and reconsider removing the boy’s blindfold. It was a good thing he was known to be terse and taciturn, for Mink could not have spoken if he had tried, what lay beneath the blindfold had rendered him speechless with its abhorrent nature. 

The boy wasn’t merely blind; his eyes had been removed. Under the blindfold did not lie the golden eyes framed by long lashes that Mink remembered, sparkling with defiance, but two empty, sunken craters of eye sockets, overlaid with sunken eyelids, with no orbs beneath to lend them form. Surgical scars framed each of the two sad depressions in the poor boy’s face, lines whiter than his already paper pale skin running in terrible ribbons over his visage, like rivers weaving their way across a map.

It was hard to say whether that was the worst thing the examination uncovered. It seemed that Aoba hadn’t just been in that cell all these months. He’d probably been abandoned there only recently. Up until then, it would appear that he’d been an experimental subject in Toue’s secret labs, as Mink himself had once been. Mink recalled, sometimes, in the grip of a nightmare, those years he’d spent underneath Oval Tower, the pain he’d endured, the humiliation, the terrible helplessness, but looking at the poor child lying there, hooked up to an IV on the cold metal exam table, he could see, for the very first time, how fortunate he’d been. He evidently hadn’t captured Toue’s insane attentions so much as Aoba had; the boy may have been there a fraction of the time that Mink had, but it could be plainly seen that Aoba had been broken, transformed in a way that Mink never had been. Mink had never lost his sense of self; he’d always kept his sights set on his goals, always kept his mind together with a sheer force of will. Aoba . . . hadn’t. He’d lost himself somewhere, and there was no telling if he’d ever come back. 

According to the doctor, Aoba hadn’t exactly been asleep this whole time, just in a sort of twilight state in between sleeping and waking, unaware of his surroundings, but not free of the agony either. But now the doctor had given him something for it, a pill to kill the pain and knock Aoba out so he could sleep properly at last. He’d given Mink a couple bottles of them, to administer to Aoba as needed, though Mink wasn’t sure he’d be able to tell when it would be needed. He supposed he’d just have to guess as best he could, if Aoba had no way to show his pain, and go by the instructions on the bottle’s label. Mink would do his best to keep the boy comfortable until he either improved . . . or didn’t. The doctor had told Mink that there was very little to be done. Mink could feed Aoba, bathe him, keep him warm, hydrated, and comfortable as possible, but Aoba’s fate from here on out would largely be decided by Aoba himself, in whatever place in his mind he still inhabited. If Aoba had the will, he might live, if not . . . well no one could say. But it would be unlikely. If Aoba gave up, Mink could try as he might, but the boy would die. 

This news wasn’t the news Mink wanted to hear, but it hardly came as a surprise to him. He’d thought much the same thing as he’d left the tower with the boy in his arms, but he didn’t regret taking him out of there, he still held to the belief that Aoba should die in comfort when his time came, whether it be sooner, or later. The question, at this point, was where to go now. They could stay on Midorijima, Mink knew Aoba had family here on the island, but . . . he wasn’t sure. Aoba had been gone so long, Mink couldn’t help but think that bringing Aoba back to them, in this condition, would only undo whatever progress they’d made in grieving and moving on. Wouldn’t it just be giving them false hope? Aoba would likely not survive, he could die the moment Mink gave him back to them. Wouldn’t it just cause them further grief? And, as he was now, Aoba couldn’t give his consent to the idea. It was a big decision, one that Mink didn’t think he could make himself, for Aoba. He’d return Aoba to his people if he passed, of course he would, and he’d return Aoba to his people if he recovered, but he didn’t feel able to do it with things as they were now. He’d been in that position, that of the family of those who’d suffered and died. While the certain knowledge that his loved ones were gone hurt him to his core, uncertainty would certainly be worse, not knowing whether they were gone or not, whether he was truly alone or not. 

Perhaps Aoba’s people were feeling that uncertainty now. Mink could give them the certainty, the peace, but not until he himself knew for certain. If it looked like Aoba was beginning to circle the drain, Mink would rush him back to them for goodbyes, the sort that Mink himself had never gotten, and if Aoba came back to himself, he’d bring the boy back to live the rest of his life among those who loved him, to get whatever kind of normal he could still have. But Mink couldn’t pretend to give them certainty when there was no certainty to be had. Aoba wasn’t Aoba right now. Even if he brought this fragile body to Aoba’s family, they wouldn’t be getting him back.

And Mink had other obligations of his own to think of right now. Having completed is goal, ridding the world of the monstrosity that was Toue, and finally giving rest to his family’s ghosts, Mink had to return to his homeland, to return the ceremonial pipe to his ancestors and say the right words over the graves he dug years ago. Having taken Clear’s soul as his responsibility, as the gas-mask man’s killer, he had to make a grave for him, and to say the right words for him too, to give him what chance he might have for an afterlife. It would only be right. 

Mink shuddered when the events that took place in that little white room appeared again, behind his closed eyelids. It felt as if it had happened years ago, a long-past nightmare, but at the same time, it seemed as if it had was still happening this very moment, every single moment. He felt fairly certain that that sensation would never really go away. He’d had a lot of rough days, rough being an immense understatement, in his time, but this would likely top them all before it ended. This day was taking years to pass, and Mink found himself feeling much, much older.

He couldn’t be sure how long he’d been sitting there, lost in his thoughts as the doctor did his job, but the sound of a throat being cleared brought his attention back to the here and now. It was the doctor, indicating that he had finished, and that he would be requiring payment in the next few minutes, then Mink would have to take Aoba and clear out of there. The doctor’s office was really just for immediate and necessary care, not for hanging about. Too many wanted criminals hanging about in one place for too long was a recipe for disaster, a threat to the doctor’s practice, and frankly, the office was too small for more than a couple people at a time. No one could stay long, for another wounded thug or few was bound to stagger in shortly. It was that time now. 

Mink stood up from his seat, putting the pills that the doctor had given him for Aoba in his pocket, and retrieving from said pocket a wad of cash. The fee was going to be exorbitant, but what else could one expect in return for emergency medical care and quite a large quantity of black market pain medication? As the money exchanged hands, the doctor gave him a nod and held up a finger, signaling to Mink to wait where he stood for a moment. The man then turned around and opened the cupboard above his desk, retrieving one of those cheap woven cotton blankets commonly found in school infirmaries, and handing it over to Mink. 

“It’s better than just a sheet,” the man said gently. If Mink didn’t know better, he’d think the man was genuinely sympathetic. Or perhaps he really was. There’s a first time for everything. 

Mink took it gratefully and turned back to Aoba, to wrap him up and get him ready to go. They’d head to one of Mink’s own private hideouts for tonight; he had many hideouts he’d shared with Scratch, but he’d have been foolish to not have secret places of his own too. 

He swaddled the poor naked boy in the blanket first, thinking it best to keep the most insulating material closest to Aoba’s chilled skin, then wrapped the sheet back around him. The material was still saturated with the stink of bleach, deeply unpleasant, eye-watering, but it’d help to keep Aoba warm, and hidden from direct view. Not only would it be a bad idea to attract attention to himself and Aoba on basic principle, and a skeletal boy without legs would most certainly be attention grabbing, but Mink wasn’t exactly top dog around these parts, and he couldn’t be sure that the attention being drawn wouldn’t be that of his rivals. He couldn’t expect to fight anyone off, especially not a group, and certainly not while carrying Aoba. 

Mink hoisted Aoba’s small form up into his arms, gently leaning the boy’s head to rest upon Mink’s chest, and turning back to the door, which the doctor kindly opened before them. Sure enough, there were a couple of injured street gang members carrying each other down the alley to the doctor’s office door. Mink left the lighted doorway and passed them quickly, holding Aoba closer and angling his body away so that the doctor’s new patients couldn’t get a very good look at him or the bundle he carried. It was unlikely they’d pay much attention to Mink as he passed, they were both dripping blood, which Mink knew from experience to be very distracting, but he didn’t want to risk it. He didn’t recognize either of them, but that was no guarantee that neither of them would recognize him, and that could prove dangerous. 

As he hurried out of the alley and emerged back into the sunlight, Mink pulled the sheet aside slightly to take a peek at Aoba’s pale face, now covered in proper bandages and not the black blindfold Mink had found him in, to check that the boy was still breathing, an action that he could tell was beginning to become a nervous habit of his. Much to his surprise, it seemed as though Aoba’s dry lips were moving, as if the boy were trying to speak. Mink was certain, however, that Aoba couldn’t possibly have been conscious, the drugs the doctor had given him couldn’t possibly have worn off already. Was Aoba talking in his sleep?

Mink leaned his head closer to Aoba’s face, listening intently to see if Aoba really spoke, or if he had only smacked his lips in slumber, and instantly came to regret it. Aoba was in fact speaking, in a quiet, painfully hoarse voice, and the words he spoke could very possibly be the saddest words Mink had ever heard. 

“It’s dark . . . please turn on the lights . . . please, I don’t like the dark . . .”

Mink could never turn the lights back on. He felt like screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't go into these things intending to emotionally damage you . . . it just kinda happens. Sorry.  
> I promise though, things do begin to look up. Spoiler: Mink WILL make cookies in this. I shit you not. Look forward to that.


	5. Don't Dream It's Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Mink's arms, Aoba dreams. In Mink's hideout, Aoba wakes properly for the first time since his liberation.

Aoba dreamt.

It was dark, it was always dark, but it was as if he could sense, by some means other than sight, the bright whiteness surrounding him. Or perhaps it had just been branded upon his mind so well while he still had his sight, that he felt the white even in the blackness. Hands held him, and he could only assume that they belonged to Clear, no other had held him, not like this, not since they entered the tower. And yet they could not be Clear’s, they were too gentle, far more gentle than Clear had been these last months, or years, Aoba couldn’t really say which, with no way to tell day from night or season from season. Time stretched on in a single ribbon, endless, without cessation, without interruption. But Clear had been a constant in that unending stream, always there, these arms must be his. Had Clear come back to himself? Had he rescued Aoba? Had the two of them been saved? These hands that held him were so warm, warmer than anything he’d felt in ages, bringing to him the image of a golden afternoon he’d spent somewhere near the ocean, a memory long lost, so that now he couldn’t tell where it had been or when. But he knew it had been lovely. He knew he’d been safe. Happy. 

Aoba had had this dream before, and he knew better than to believe it. But there was no harm in enjoying it, even if he knew it to be false. He could relax into the fantasy, let himself feel all the joy of this lovely lie his mind told him on repeat, like a sweet melody he’d heard once playing on a radio in a shop and had been unable to forget. 

In his dream, his sight returned to him, and he looked up into the smiling face of the one he loved, into sparkling pink eyes, like coral in the ocean, above cheeks blooming the pink of roses, so beautiful to him, and the sweetest smile Aoba had ever seen on anyone. Aoba’s head felt so pink inside, if pink could be a feeling, and he floated in those warm arms as if upon the water, listening to that familiar lullaby his love had sung to him, it seemed not long ago at all. In his dream, his eyes drifted closed, and he hummed along with the tune . . . but he could not remember the words.

The pink fled and the dark had come again in an instant. The words, his love’s words, they eluded him, and he realized he had forgotten. It had been so long since he heard them that he had forgotten, and the peace they had once brought him was lost, and he could not bring it back, however hard he wished. He’d never feel that pink again, not truly. He was confined to darkness. 

His chest tightened and his heart began to race as he realized just how trapped he was, in life, in his own head, he was trapped and could not free himself. But that wasn’t the worst of it. He wasn’t the only one imprisoned. Clear, the Clear he’d grown to love, his silly, kind love, was trapped too, somewhere beneath a shell of steel, his sparkle hidden behind dulled eyes, behind an empty smile. In the metallic bones of Clear’s cold hands, in the ticking of his clockwork heart, in the pumping of his artificial blood, the man Aoba loved lay dormant, or at least Aoba hoped so. He could not believe, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, that his Clear was truly gone. The man remained, even if only in Aoba’s memory. As long as Aoba remembered, Clear would never be gone, would never die. 

But he was forgetting, and Clear was dying, a piece at a time as the memories faded into the grey background of Aoba’s mind. The colors were leaving piece by piece, the rose of Clear’s cheeks and the coral of his eyes, the same way that Clear’s artificial skin had flaked from his face in the few moments before Aoba lost consciousness, before he’d woken to a patched up robot in Clear’s place, and a cold laboratory table. 

The relative coherency of his thoughts began to unravel, as it often did these days, sending him spiraling into a panic, squirming as if to escape, though he couldn’t think what it was he fled. He was alone in the dark, terrified. He’d been afraid of the dark since he was a child, but he’d always had someone there to hold his hand and tell him it would be alright, either his granny or Koujaku would be there, whispering to him that he needn’t be afraid. There was no hand holding his now, no affectionate whispers to console him; it was just black and cold and quiet as the grave, horribly quiet, and he didn’t know where he was, or if he indeed was at all. He could be dead now; if he were would he know it? 

Aoba is suddenly that child again, afraid of the darkness that stretched before him. He’s alone, alone, alone in the dark. Would someone please turn on the lights? Please? Please?

Out in the real world, outside the prison of Aoba’s mind, Mink struggled to go onward to the safe house. Aoba had begun to struggle weakly in his arms, forcing Mink to grip him tighter so he wouldn’t fall, even though it terrified Mink to tighten his hold, afraid he’d break the boy’s brittle bird bones. It felt awful, holding someone as they tried to escape with all their might. He’d done it before and it hadn’t been much easier then, but this was so much worse; he didn’t lock this poor thing in his embrace to meet an end, for a purpose, for a greater good, but simply because he couldn’t let go, for the boy’s own sake. He could, and had, been cruel, he’d even gotten used to it, but it was not his true nature. Still, Aoba struggled as if in fear for his life, and Mink couldn’t help him to escape the grip of his nightmare

Mink tried in vain to calm Aoba, rocking him gently as he would a crying baby, and hushing him quietly, for lack of a better thing to do. Mink had become so used to knowing exactly what to do over these last decades, but he was entirely at a loss now. He had planned to be dead by now, not the sole caretaker for this wretched shell of a boy he'd known so very briefly. He wished he could run away, drop the kid and go, but he simply couldn’t, not now. Aoba reminded him of someone, another helpless child he’d known, who he’d shushed, who he'd held, who Mink didn’t dare think too hard about, even all these years later, for fear he’d lose his mind. He was bound by a force beyond his understanding to stay, and to care for someone, as he hadn’t for a very long time.

He wished Aoba would stop speaking in that sobbing voice. Mink wouldn’t have thought he would miss the total silence of the boy in the tower, he’d found it so terrible at the time, but he now knew of a worse thing, this begging and pleading that Mink couldn’t stop. He could not do what Aoba begged of him. For all his attempts, it appeared that Aoba could not hear him. Mink could not help him. Aoba was helpless, and so now was Mink.

He hated that sense of helplessness, it had been the worst feeling he’d experienced; in all of the tragedies he’d endured, being helpless had been the worst part. He cradled Aoba, his cheek resting upon tangled blue hair, and shushed him as he once did a babe in a nursery many years ago, begging him to please stop talking, he didn’t think he could bear any more.

He wouldn’t have thought his heart could break more than the once. 

Mink was eternally grateful that the Old Resident District was so crowded, not an open space anywhere, so that he could move almost entirely unseen through its dim alleyways, not running into a soul as he reached his hideout. It was another reinforced metal door at the end of a grimy alley, much like the doctor’s place, though this alley was even less well traveled, the bricks thick with moss growing in clumps, and the dirt and debris of many years littering the path beneath Mink’s feet. 

Shifting Aoba’s form so he could free a hand, Mink dug into one of his pockets to retrieve a large key, with which he opened the padlock on the door. He hadn’t slid the bolts on the inside of the door home to lock it when he’d last left this place, so he could easily shove the door open, albeit with a strength not many other men possessed, and step into the dark entryway. Mink closed the door upon entering and instantly slid the bolts home, making this little hole in the alley wall into a fortress of his own. There had been no point in locking it so well when he hadn’t been here, but now that he was, it would be plain stupid to not lock it up tight. No one knew of this place, but if ever anyone were to discover it, Mink wanted to make damn sure they couldn’t get in to get at himself . . . and now Aoba. It was strange to be sharing this, his secret place, known only to him, with someone, but considering that Aoba was far from lucid, it couldn’t really do much harm to have him here. 

He flicked on the lights using the switch on the wall with some difficulty, the still struggling Aoba held to his chest with only one arm, revealing a room with few furnishings and deeply in need of a dusting. All the necessities, however, sheets, blankets, packaged non-perishable foods and such, had been kept in a cupboard with an airtight seal, so they should all have been free of dust. Mink went to the cupboard and retrieved a thin roll-out mattress, sheets, and a warm quilted blanket, which he laid, still with only the one hand, making it a bit difficult, out on the metal bedframe standing in the corner of the room. He then proceeded to lower Aoba gently down onto the just-made bed, tucking the sheets and quilt around him snugly, partly to keep the boy warm, and partly to keep him still so he wouldn’t roll off the bed and onto the hard concrete floor. Mink wasn’t altogether sure that, in this state, the boy could survive even such a short fall. 

What to do then . . . Mink checked the time on his Coil and realized that it was time for Aoba’s medication again. Perhaps that’s why the boy had struggled so, been so restless, because of the medication wearing off so that he lost the deep sleep he’d had before, in the doctor’s office, while Mink and the doctor had spoken. The poor kid.

Mink retrieved the pill bottle from his pocket, along with a note the doctor had attached, with instructions. He read them carefully, before extracting a capsule from the bottle. He held in in his palm as he went in search of a water bottle from his stash. He wasn’t sure though how to give it to Aoba. Could the boy swallow? The previous medication had been administered intravenously, so he didn’t really know. Mink had done a lot of things in his time, but he hadn’t actually done this precise thing, giving medication orally to an unconscious person. 

Mink dithered for a moment. He only had the two hands, one for the water, and one for the pill, so he’d have to find something else to hold Aoba upright. From the look of the boy’s atrophied muscles, he couldn’t have held himself up, even had Mink been able to communicate the necessity of it to him. He didn’t actually have a pillow in the cupboard, he supposed he’d have to go out and get one as soon as he felt able to leave Aoba by himself, so in the meanwhile he supposed his coat, rolled into a bundle, would do the job. 

He took off his coat and, after a moments consideration, flipped it inside out. The inside wasn’t exactly freshly cleaned, but it would still be much cleaner than the outside, which had stains on it that Mink assumed, though he could not recall exactly, were blood, motor oil, and . . . something. Mink had no idea what that was, but he could be pretty sure that it shouldn’t be touching a sick person’s head. Lining side out, Mink rolled up his coat into a large bundle. Upon patting it, Mink deemed it soft enough and reached down towards Aoba where he lay pinned under the quilt, gently lifting the boy’s shoulders and head to place the coat-turned-pillow behind him, propping him up at an angle, which Mink thought might help Aoba swallow. 

He unscrewed the cap from the water bottle in preparation before popping the pill between Aoba’s lips. He brought the water to Aoba’s slightly open mouth, gently pouring in enough to let the pill go down, before raising his hand to carefully close Aoba’s mouth, to encourage him to swallow. There was probably a better way to do this, but Mink didn’t know what it was. Some water dribbled out of the sides of the boy’s mouth, but he did swallow, much to Mink’s relief. A moment passed where Aoba went still. Were the drugs that fast-acting? 

It was then that Mink was pleasantly surprised by a movement. Aoba relaxed back against his impromptu pillow for a moment, then, miraculously, or so it seemed to Mink, Aoba raised both his arms, shaking with effort, and reached out towards Mink, or, more likely, towards the water bottle. If Aoba felt able to drink, that was a very good sign. Mink brought the bottle back to Aoba’s lips.

“Here,” he said softly, holding the bottle steady while Aoba’s weak, thin arms, followed the line of Mink’s own arm to grasp the water bottle in fragile fingers.

Mink smiled gently, pleased, and let Aoba take hold of the bottle, still keeping a grip on it though, since Aoba probably wouldn’t be able to hold it up himself if Mink let go. The boy sipped greedily from the bottle, water streaming out of the corners of his mouth and running down his neck to dampen his hair. Mink took the bottle away after a few moments, Aoba’s arms groping for it as Mink pulled it away, before falling back down to rest on the quilt covering him. Mink couldn’t let Aoba drink too much; it could do him a great deal of harm, his stomach shrunken as it was. It saddened him to have to leave Aoba thirsty, but it was for his own good. He’d give him more in a little while, along with something to eat.

A voice, croaky and faint, emerged once more from Aoba’s mouth. A part of Mink shrunk back at the sound, dreading what the boy would say this time.

“Wh . . . whe . . . mmm . . . ahh.”

It was some unintelligible phrase. Mink leaned closer to Aoba’s face, hoping to be able to understand. It was odd. The boy had been quiet, but understandable before. Why couldn’t he speak clearly now? The meds, maybe? 

“Wh . . .” the boy took a breath, “where am I?”

Was the boy properly conscious? 

Mink responded in a soft voice, “It’s alright, you’re safe here.”

“You’re not him.” The voice seemed almost accusing. He must be referring to Clear.

“No, I’m not.” 

“Oh . . .” Aoba’s voice trailed off, and Mink saw his lip begin to quiver, as if he were about to cry.

Mink reached out his hand to take Aoba’s own, but hesitated. It may not be the best idea. It very well might make him more afraid. Instead, he gave a shushing sound, his apparent go-to when he didn’t know what to say or do. 

“Am I . . .” the boy began before trailing off again.

“Yes?”

“Am I dreaming again?” Aoba asked, taking a shuddering breath as if trying to control himself, to keep himself from tears. 

“No, you are not,” Mink replied, wishing he could do something to stop Aoba’s evident distress. It was entirely understandable that he should be distressed, he was entitled to his emotions, but Mink still wished for it to be otherwise. Aoba probably was wishing the same. 

The boy began to cry in earnest, shoulders shaking, chest heaving, and Mink wished again that he could reach over, take Aoba’s hand, and take the pain away, but he didn’t dare try. He couldn’t take away the pain, not really, he knew. He hoped the medicine would kick in soon so Aoba could have a rest. The convulsions wracking his fragile body as he sobbed looked so painful. Mink hoped that it could be stopped, at least for now, until Aoba was a little stronger and could grieve without hurting himself further. 

As if in direct answer to Mink’s silent pleading, Aoba began to relax further into the bed, leaning back into the support of Mink’s coat, and his breaths slowed from heaving sobs back to gentle sighs, with an occasional hiccup as he calmed down.  
Mink let out a breath of his own, a sigh of relief. 

“It’s alright,” he whispered, to himself as much as to Aoba. “Just sleep.”

Aoba’ chest now rising and falling in the slow rhythm of sleep, Mink leaned over to tuck the boy’s arms back under the covers and the quilt around his sides, to keep him warm as best Mink could. 

Food was the next order of business, as Aoba needed food desperately in his state of starvation, and Mink’s own stomach had begun to rumble. He hadn’t had breakfast that morning. He hadn’t thought he’d live long enough to get hungry that day, so he hadn’t bothered with it. He’d make some kind of soup for Aoba, something gentle on his delicate stomach, though what kind precisely would depend on the ingredients Mink had in his stash, and he’d make something for himself as well. A can of something probably, heated up on the portable camp stove he had lying around here somewhere. He felt unusually tired, possibly the most tired he’d ever been, and didn’t feel up to cooking much more than the pot of soup for Aoba. 

His eyes running over Aoba’s sleeping form, Mink felt such relief, but with it, Mink also found that he felt utterly lost. He was glad Aoba had woken, ecstatic that he had been able to hold a conversation, but completely at a loss about what would come next. Food first, at least he knew that much. 

Once he’d gotten everything on the stove heating up, a light soup for Aoba, which started out as a canned broth that Mink doctored with spices and some dried mushrooms he had in store, and a can of chili for Mink, he sat down in a chair beside the bed in which Aoba now slept. Casting his eyes downward and clasping his hands in a gesture of respect and reverence, Mink did something that he hadn’t been moved to do for a long while now.

He prayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, stuff happened in this chapter, plot movement stuff. The title, if you've suspected it, is indeed based on a song by Crowded House. It was stuck in my head while writing and seemed good enough as a chapter title.  
> Sorry for the delay on this update, I was out of town and away from my laptop for a few days, and it totally threw off my groove.


	6. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mink does his best, but he feels helpless and inadequate in trying to care for Aoba. But doing this, caring for someone who depends on him so completely, stirs up old memories and old grief.

It had been difficult to wake Aoba once his soup was ready, and though he woke, he didn’t seem quite so lucid as he had before, probably due to the medicine. Aoba’s head lolled as Mink propped the boy up and held the bowl of soup to his lips, giving him small sips of warm liquid to settle his stomach and warm the chill in his bones, to chase away the winter that had taken up residence in his blood, bleaching the life out of his skin. 

The blankets slid down Aoba’s body a bit as Mink sat him up, revealing a thin white web of scar tissue, and bruises that Mink really hoped weren’t finger marks, though they looked horribly similar to the fingers of a hand, grippingly tightly enough to hurt. Mink hurriedly pulled the quilted fabric back up, as if to hide the marks from the world, from Aoba, from himself. Aoba couldn’t see them, but he was almost certain Aoba wouldn’t like Mink to see them, at least not the proud, independent Aoba that he’d met before. He felt that he should do as that man would have wanted him to; even if Aoba had fled this body, it was still his. 

Mink himself feared to look. A part of him that he did his best to deny chanted on repeat, “I don’t want to know, I don’t want to know.”

But he had to know. To care for Aoba, he had to know all these horrible things, he couldn’t spare himself from that discomfort, and he had no right to. He had to take responsibility for them. This was the path he’d set himself upon, and he had to finish it, however unpleasant the journey. Maybe, he thought, if he did this, he could repent his sins. 

He couldn’t deny that this, his chance meeting with Aoba in the place that had been the death of his own innocence and the birth of his rougher, colder self, seemed to be more than coincidence. Mink did believe in fate, in destiny, though he’d become gradually more jaded and distrusting of the idea as the years passed in a daze of violence and grief. But he could feel the version of himself that had been born in Toue’s dungeons dying, fading away. He had Aoba to thank for that. Now, looking back upon himself, he realized that he was happy that his suicide had been interrupted, that when the day he joined his ancestors finally came, he would not come to them as that bitter, destructive man.

But he knew that he would still not go to them as the man his family had known. He could not erase the past, could not turn back the clock to that happier time, however much he wished. He was a different person now, and all he could do was try to improve, to be the best man he could be as his years waned, to be someone he would want his family to see when they met again. 

Perhaps, thanks to Aoba, he’d have another chance at heaven, after he’d thrown away his first in anger. 

That wasn’t to say that what had happened to Aoba was good; it was horrifying, ungodly, but Mink saw their meeting, without which they both surely would have perished, as a sign from the universe. Mink could save Aoba, and in that save himself. Physician, heal thyself. It would be hard, terribly hard, but after all, that’s to be expected from a quest for redemption; it mustn’t be easy. For a moment, Mink felt a sort of peace in himself that he hadn’t thought he’d feel ever again, despite the nausea and uncertainty that churned in the pit of his stomach. These things were trials, but he would face them, and he would conquer them. His own labors of Hercules. 

Not that he could ever be a hero. He had well and truly forfeited that already. The best he could do now was to make sure he wasn’t the villain at the end of the story.  
But peace and happiness are always fleeting, and Mink’s inner peace fled as a sudden loud shriek rent the air. A drop of the warm soup had fallen onto Aoba’s chest, and it had set him off somehow, screaming at the top of his lungs, flailing his bony arms wildly. Mink quickly turned to set the soup bowl down lest more spill onto Aoba’s sensitive skin, and, upon turning back, he was too slow and too surprised to dodge the thin but very pointy elbow that collided with his cheekbone, hard, with more force than he would have thought Aoba could possibly muster. 

“Aoba, Aoba it’s okay,” Mink said as soothingly as he could manage with Aoba beating him about the head, doing his best to fend the boy off without hurting him, “You’re safe, it’s okay.”

He didn’t think Aoba could hear him, the kid was running on pure fear. Shit, what could he do? The way Aoba was flopping about, he was in serious danger of falling onto the floor, but in this state, restraining him would probably make things worse. Mink remembered the handprint bruises he’d seen purpling Aoba’s skeletal hips. No, physical force was not a good idea. Shit, what are you supposed to do in these situations? Maybe if he just let Aoba wear himself out and watched to make sure he didn’t injure himself? No, he couldn’t just let Aoba stay terrified, screaming until he passed out.

How to calm Aoba down . . . the meds were supposed to be doing that but apparently not . . .

Mink breathed in deeply. If this didn’t work, he was going to feel really exceptionally stupid.

He began to sing. It was the only lullaby he knew, and only half remembered, and he was definitely singing off key, but it was the only think he could think of to do. A couple lines in, he had to resort to just humming the tune, for he couldn’t remember the words and was far too stressed out to try to make some up. To his infinite relief, it seemed to have some effect on Aoba; he slowed in his tossing and thrashing, and his screaming faded until it was only heavy breathing, his body trying to make up for the lack of oxygen his cries had left him with. 

Gradually, Aoba began to sag, sinking back into the cot and Mink’s coat, and his breathing slowed and quieted into the slow rhythm of sleep. Mink sighed in relief. But he realized now just how much of a minefield caring for Aoba was going to be. He couldn’t be entirely sure what would set the boy off, and he could only know what to avoid doing once he’d done it and Aoba had an episode.

God, it had been so much easier when he hadn’t cared at all for anyone, not for others and not even for himself. But this was the labor, this was the trial. This was what he had to get through.

Mink stood quietly so as not to disturb Aoba in his much needed sleep, and turned back to the stove. Aoba hadn’t finished the soup, but at least he’d gotten some of it down, and it could always be reheated later. He would have to go out at some point though, he hadn’t enough food for more than one more day, at least no food that Aoba could digest in his state. He couldn’t imagine though, with the way Aoba had been that night, leaving him alone. But Mink also couldn’t imagine packing Aoba up and plopping him into a shopping cart to wheel around the grocery store.

He’d have to leave Aoba alone for a little while, it couldn’t be avoided, but he could skip a proper grocery run and just go to the convenience store nearby; it’d certainly cut down on the time he’d spent away from the hideout, away from Aoba. And perhaps Aoba would have another period of lucidity and Mink would be able to explain to him where he was going and that Aoba would be safe here. If Aoba didn’t wake, if he stayed like this, unaware of his surroundings most of the time, in limbo between here and some other place, Mink would deal with it. He would, he’d take care of Aoba as best he could all the same, but he had no idea how to take care of someone like that. His do his best, but he suspected his best wouldn’t be good enough to keep Aoba safe and as healthy as he could be. 

As he got ready for bed, having made up a pallet of sorts to sleep upon on the floor by Aoba’s cot, Mink looked up on his coil articles about trauma and how to help someone with a severe response to trauma, but he couldn’t find anything relevant to Aoba’s particular situation, which was admittedly something very rare, and nothing practical to help Mink help Aoba. 

Maybe, when Aoba woke, if he were calm and able to speak, Mink would ask him what he needs. Aoba might not know everything that he needs to feel better, but he surely had a better idea of it than Mink. They could start slow, with things like comfort food and soft blankets, comfortable clothes, and the company of people he cared about. Whatever he liked.

That was another thing Mink had to really think about now. How, exactly, would he return Aoba to his family, and how could he possibly explain? It would probably be easy with Tae; she’d worked for Toue and she knew the kinds of monsters that man manufactured, she could understand what had happened to her grandson. Mink could show up on her doorstep and be accepted calmly. 

Aoba’s friends, however, probably couldn’t understand. Mink had heard that Koujaku and his gang were still looking for Aoba all across the island, and he’d heard rumors of Koujaku somewhat losing his reason and calm over Aoba’s disappearance. Confronting Koujaku with Aoba’s sad state would likely result in a fight, and that would do Aoba no good at all. It would not be easy to be the one explaining the situation to Koujaku. And who knows how the little creep in green would react. He’d struck Mink as a little bit off, unpredictable, possibly a bit unhinged, even when everything was normal; god knows what he’d do now.

Mink would also insist upon staying to keep an eye on Aoba, as he felt was his duty, his new mission given to him by a higher power, and although that would likely go down well with Tae, who would understand the benefit of another helping hand, Aoba’s friends would probably take exception. Violent exception.

Mink would just have to ask Aoba. Aoba would know far better than he. 

He felt awfully clueless and helpless to be someone’s caretaker.

Mink could tell that praying at night was going to become a habit, a ritual, once again. He hadn’t felt this lost since the night the grass had burned away over the land of his ancestors, filling the air with acrid smoke that stung the eyes, and leaving the smoldering wreckage of Mink’s life among the bodies of those he held dear. From that night on, he’d had his Plan, his Mission, and he’d had no room in his head alongside the burning cold rage for doubt or hesitation. Everything had been crystal clear.

Now his life’s path was overgrown with thorny brambles and he had to pick his way through it delicately; he didn’t have that clarity of purpose, clarity of self, that clear and simple path. He needed guidance, needed strength in a way he hadn’t before.

He needed to pray, even if it was only a way to get his thoughts in order. And if the spirits were listening, he sure wouldn’t turn down any help they might see fit to send his way. 

Mink faded slowly into sleep, one hand resting gently on the edge of Aoba’s cot, where he would feel Aoba’s restlessness right away and wake to be there with him. It left an ache in his chest to think of the last time he’d done such a thing, a hand on the edge of a cradle to protect his baby even as he slept. His baby . . .

He remembered acutely why it was he’d stomped down his emotions so, denied them, why he’d become a cold and unfeeling man. This thing, this caring for someone, was dredging up some very old and very painful memories, memories that Mink wasn’t sure he could handle, even after all this time. Especially after all this time. He’d been unfeeling for so long, he hadn't grieved, and now it felt like caring was going to crush him under its weight.

Tears dampened Mink’s eyelashes, seeping slowly through, though he didn’t dare let them escape his tightly shut eyes, for fear of opening the floodgates to an emotional deluge of biblical proportions. He tried to keep his breathing steady, to keep it from breaking rhythm to become the stuttering, halting breaths of crying. 

His baby . . . he’d had a baby . . . and then he didn’t anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sad dad Mink. Y'all predicted I was gonna go there, right? Mink's got a lot of long-repressed emotions to deal with.  
> I don't think Aoba will be too happy with Mink comparing him to a baby all the time though. He's disabled, not an infant.
> 
> I'm sorry this update took so long, I've moved house twice and been working on commissions, as well as my other long term fic. 
> 
> Oh yeah, and I have an Instagram now, everybody, if you feel like checking it out: artemisgraceart  
> I post my art as I work on it, pics of my collection of tiny plastic toy food, places I go . . . and selfies, cuz I gotta indulge my vanity somewhere amiright?


	7. Personal Tragedies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mink reflects back upon his life, upon how he became the man he is now, and questions what the future could possibly hold for Aoba.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so very long to update, my computer died, taking all of my files with it to the grave. Everything, including the entirety of Forget Me Not, along with my other fics and my school work. I cussed very loudly, you can be assured of that. 
> 
> I will be updating more frequently now that I have a new, hopefully more reliable, computer. At least until school starts up again.
> 
> I'm sorry to keep dumping the depressing shit on you folks, it's just that this stuff has gotta come out before things can get better. 
> 
> Warning for: graphic depictions of violence and upsetting themes. Just making sure that you are all prepared.

There were things that Mink didn’t dare let himself think about.

There were so many things, after the life Mink had led, full of violence, some purposeful and some senseless. All regrettable. So many things to avoid thinking of, but the greatest of these were the days just before the massacre that tore his world apart. The massacre itself was intensely painful to think about, the acrid smell of smoke making Mink’s nostrils burn and his eyes leak salty tears at the mere memory, but the days just before were even harder to remember, more unbearable to think of. Because they reminded him so much what it was he’d lost.

The days before the genocide were some of the happiest of his life. He was a new father with a tiny, beautiful baby boy, healthy and more perfect than Mink could have imagined. His wife too, she was so happy and so beautiful. 

There had been some complications toward the end of his wife’s pregnancy and she had spent some time in hospital, but everything had worked out fine, and she had come home with their child, asleep wrapped in a fuzzy red blanket. Mink’s life was permeated with relief and joy. He had everything he’d ever wanted and more. His heart was full to bursting with a sense of fulfillment.

And he lost it all.

No, it didn’t lose it, to say so would suggest that it was a matter of chance, a terrible coincidental event, but that was not so. It was taken from him, stolen by force, by flame and machine gun fire. A deliberate act. Everything he’d ever wanted went up in smoke.

He had been out that day. He’d gone into the big city some ways away to pick up his wife’s medication, and traffic had been so terrible that he hadn’t gotten back until after dark. He’d seen the fires from a mile off and he’d pushed the gas pedal of his rusty old truck down hard against the floorboards, tires squealing, engine protesting at the strain, but he couldn’t go fast enough. There was no such thing as fast enough, for it was already too late to save anyone.

His home, the place his people had lived for generations, the land upon which they’d lived and in which they’d been buried, had been consumed by flame. 

His wife had still been mostly bedridden when Toue’s people set their house alight. She’d tried to get to the baby’s cot, to get them both out, but she couldn’t. She just couldn’t. 

In films, people are always able to achieve what is necessary, no matter the obstacles, by some sheer force of will, but real life isn’t like that and you cannot wish away illness, you cannot wish hard enough to change reality. The physical world cannot be shaped through simple wishing. Mink’s wife hadn’t made it, she hadn’t been strong enough, whatever her desperation, and she was left stranded on the wooden floor as the air grew hot, and their newborn baby was helpless, not even big enough to raise his head by himself, trapped in his cradle as the smoke closed in. 

Their baby hadn’t even been named yet. The naming ceremony was set for a few days later, but that day never came, the future that should have been reduced ashes. Mink’s baby died nameless, alone, and scared.

And Mink had gone insane. There was no better term for it, no more delicate way to put it. Upon reaching his home, upon realizing that he’d lost his wife and child, he lost his mind entirely. It had taken ten of Toue’s men acting together ato subdue him, as he was enraged beyond the efficacy of tazers, fighting off the effects of anesthetic darts with the power of adrenaline and pure grief flooding his brain, dampening his senses with a haze of red.

The time in between then and waking up in a cell in the bowels of the Oval Tower was a blur, but Mink could vaguely remember some things, from a perspective that was as if he were standing outside himself, a bystander watching a rabid animal attack. He could see the events like frames in a strip of film, disconnected, and the images frightened him. He saw himself kill a man for the very first time. 

He saw himself rip a man’s arm from his body, the flesh rending with a sickening liquid noise, bones separating with a horrifying crack, and an agonized scream piercing the air. He had beaten the man with his own severed arm until his face was also a mass of blood, not stopping until his attention was diverted by the other men swarming him like ants on a wasp, trying to stop him, to hold him back. It was those men that he’d gone after next. Those he didn’t kill, he maimed, until he tired enough for them to capture him.

Mink could see himself doing it, slaughtering living people, in his mind’s eye, but he couldn’t quite grasp that it was himself doing the damage. He had never considered, before that day, the monster that dwelt just beneath his skin. Remorse became a stranger to him, and all boundaries vanished in a moment of rage.

To this day he couldn’t even be sure if the scream he’d heard had come from the man on the blood-soaked ground, or from Mink himself.

The monster within himself that he’d met that day had never gone back to sleep. Even decades later, it still lived at the forefront of his mind, influencing Mink to do things he would previously have considered barbaric. Things he could never have imagined himself capable of.

Perhaps he was still insane, if not quite so out of control as he had been that day. The monster didn’t sleep, and the madness could not be quelled. 

Mink could feel the madness humming beneath his skin even now, sitting at the bedside of what remained of a happy, simple young man he’d once met, his nails cutting into his palms as he clenched his fists tight, in an effort to keep himself under control. 

Aoba’s loss reminded Mink too much of his own, and he felt as though he were drowning under the waves of memories crashing over him. He’d piled up the sandbags to keep out the flood years ago, when he was chained to a cold concrete floor, far away from sunlight, but now the waters were breaking through, those sandbags no longer enough to keep the pain out. 

He was glad that Aoba had gone back to sleep. He didn’t think he could cope with Aoba’s broken crying right now.

Mink just had to hack it, just had to withstand it, just had to keep it together long enough for Aoba’s path to reveal itself so that Mink might set him upon it. Such a thing, however, was much easier to say than it was to do. But he’d made a choice, and he’d have to follow through.

However he might struggle, his path had been determined by some higher power, and he dared not disobey.

And however much Aoba’s tragedy reminded Mink of his own, their experiences were in no way the same. Mink may have lost a lot, but he still had his body, his health, he could still take care of himself, still be independent. Aoba didn’t have that. Aoba had no legs to stand upon, only the merest of atrophied muscles to haul himself upright, his body little more than a skeleton, a collection of fragile bones bleached white. He had no eyes to see with. He could neither feed nor bathe himself. The indignity of it … the poor child.

Mink didn’t even know if Aoba was still in possession of his own mind. Mink had seen the marks of suffering upon Aoba’s body, but the full extent of the effects on Aoba’s mind were yet to be seen.

He had to hope that Aoba could find his mind again much as Mink had after his mental break, but their traumas were nothing alike, and their healing likely wouldn’t be either. Besides, Mink had never reverted back to his old self, he simply couldn’t with all that he had experienced. It wasn’t likely that Aoba would ever be himself again either. Yes, their trials couldn’t truly be compared.

Mink grieved for the loss of other people, people whom he’d loved, while Aoba grieved for the loss of himself. A loss even more profound.


	8. Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some genuinely odd behavior on Aoba's part frightens Mink, but the man still cannot deny the stirring of some unnamable feelings deep within himself. Just don't ask him to explain any of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long hiatus, everyone. The break ended and I've been back at university, preoccupied with classes and homework and the like. As such, writing this chapter took far longer than I would have liked it to. 
> 
> I've been informed by a friend of mine that certain elements of this chapter are rather disturbing, so fair warning there. I can't tell you the nature of it exactly, as I feel that may ruin the surprise, but Aoba does behave in a way that some may find upsetting.

Mink stirred in his sleep where he lay on the floor beside Aoba’s cot. Something had moved, he’d felt a vibration through the hand that still rested on the side of Aoba’s cot. His eyelids fluttered as he struggled his way out of his slumber, shaking his head a little from side to side as if to shake away the chains that bound him to his dreams and the past that lived within them. It was then that he heard it.

A voice calling out from somewhere nearby, a sickly-sweet voice, each and every word dripping with poisoned honey. 

“Where are you, love? Come to me?”

Mink felt the cot shudder once again, before going suddenly, totally still. Jerked violently out of a restless sleep and into a state of fear, Mink sat up abruptly. The blankets were bunched up and tangled, but the cot looked too flat for having a person sleeping in it. He reached up to frantically pat down the blanket and his own coat, which remained upon the cot, and … Aoba wasn’t there. 

Mink could hear an odd sound coming from somewhere in shadows of their dim little hiding place, a noise like a slap and a drag, and Mink couldn’t help but imagine it to be the noise of something dragging itself bodily across the floor. He could guess what that something might be, and he didn’t like the implications. Even if the noise was being caused by Aoba … there was still the chance that it wasn’t really Aoba. Not exactly. Not right now, at any rate. 

He raised himself up to kneel beside the cot, both hands grasping the cool metal of the cot’s edge, knuckles going white in a terrible suspense. Peeking over the edge, Mink still couldn’t see anything, and though the sound continued, starting and stopping and starting up again, he couldn't quite identify from where the sound came, what with the way all sound echoed a bit in this small, bare-walled space. Shuffling and scraping its way along the floor, the sound was on the move. 

The hair on the back of Mink’s neck rose, his chest feeling tight and a chill rolling its way down the length of his spine as the voice rang out again.

“Clear? Sweetheart, where have you gone?”

Mink was wide awake now, and he knew exactly what that voice reminded him of. It was a hideous reflection of the voice he’d heard calling out in the darkness of a cell, in the sterile whiteness of the dungeons beneath Oval Tower. It reminded him of the robot, Clear’s voice, calling out to the prone, silent Aoba as he sat there silently on the freezing floor in nothing but a snow-white, bleach scented sheet. Clear’s voice, calling out to Aoba with horrible, twisted versions of terms of endearment, calling out with a voice full of some twisted bastardization of love. 

It was Aoba now, calling out in that voice. It was Aoba speaking, but not from this place, and not from this time. He spoke from sometime in the months before, from his little white room where he sat in solitude, silent as the grave, for hour after hour until Clear came for him. 

“Clear? You’re there, aren’t you? You never stay away this long,” a hideous giggle rang out, far too sharp to communicate any true amusement, the sound making Mink flinch where he crouched in stillness under cover of the cot, “Are we playing a game?”

Mink heard nothing for a few moments after that last question of Aoba’s, the boy going totally silent for the first time since he’d crawled his way off the cot, unmoving in the quiet of the room, not even the sound of breathing to be heard. Mink suddenly realized that he wasn’t the only one listening in that moment. Aoba listened too, that’s why he’d gone so still. Could Aoba hear him?

He stood up from where he had been crouching next to the cot, moving as quietly as possible, hoping that the slight rustling that his pants made as he straightened would go unnoticed by the creature with Aoba’s face that prowled the room. From this position, standing, Mink could see Aoba, and he watched as Aoba began to pace. 

Pacing was the best word for it, or at least the best Mink could think of. Whatever one called it, it was awful to watch. The boy would wobble up onto his hands and the stumps that remained of his legs as if on hands and knees, though he no longer had any knees upon which to rest. He would stagger forward on the stumps of his limbs, an uncoordinated spider scrabbling about on the dirty floor, but he couldn’t keep his balance for long, and he would fall back onto his bruised hips and chest, reduced once again to dragging himself along the surface with both hands. 

He repeated the pattern over and over, rising, stumbling, and falling, going round and round, but never passing a certain point, as if there were an invisible line drawn on the floor. He would roam all around, heaving himself along with what strength remained in his stick-thin arms, dragging his skeletal body along behind him, but he wouldn’t cross the invisible line. 

Mink wondered why, as he watched Aoba go around and around, calling out for a man who was neither a man, nor alive, a man who would never come back for him, but then Mink realized: Aoba knew just where the bars of his cell were. He’d memorized the location of everything in his cell in his long months of darkness. He was stopping before he ran into them, not realizing that the bars weren’t there anymore, not understanding that he was no longer confined, that his prison had fallen to a pile of rubble, to be forgotten by all but history books.

Aoba stopped in his wobbling crawl, flopping down in place, and slammed a palm down into the floor, the motion weak, but likely using all the strength he could still summon, the slapping noise filling the still air that hung about himself and Mink. Tears streamed down his face, tears of anger and frustration more than tears of grief.

“Why don’t you answer me?” he screamed, his voice grown hoarse and breaking under the strain of his cries, “Don’t leave me alone, you said you’d never leave me alone!”

Aoba was desperate for a response from someone who could never answer him. 

Mink started to make his way over to where Aoba lay upon the floor, moving slowly and gently so as not to spook the boy. Aoba seemed to be breaking down, going back to his sad, but more familiar and more understandable state. Whatever had happened just then, it was not familiar and Mink could not understand it. It had frightened him more than he would want to admit.

Despite his distress, despite the volume of his sobbing breaths, Aoba heard him coming.

“Clear?” Aoba scrambled up into a sitting position, looking about with the eyes that he no longer had, as if trying to catch sight of his former captor, “Is that you? I was so worried that you had gone away …”

Aoba’s voice had calmed after he heard Mink’s approaching footsteps, much to Mink’s relief. A relief that didn’t last long.

Aoba lurched forward suddenly, throwing himself into a stumbling sort of sprint on his hands and the stumps of his amputated legs, and Mink realized suddenly that he had strayed into the “cage” that Aoba had established on the floor, walking through the imaginary bars that only Aoba, in his blindness, could see. Mink moved to take a step back, startled, but Aoba got to him first.

“I’ve missed you, love,” Aoba crooned softly, as he wrapped his emaciated frame around one of Mink’s legs, holding the man in place; not because Aoba had the strength to hold him there, the boy was as fragile and light as a porcelain doll, but because Mink feared that an attempt to pull away could break the fragile ceramic of Aoba’s arms. Aoba could shatter so very easily.

The bony fingers of Aoba’s hands dug into Mink’s leg, tangling themselves in the fabric of his pants, making extricating himself all the more difficult, the boy’s nails biting lightly into the flesh beneath the cloth. Aoba pulled himself even closer, wrapping himself tightly around the limb as he continued to croon affectionate words in that sick reflection of the robot’s voice, talking to a dead machine while clinging onto a living man. A virtual stranger at that.

Aoba sounded just like the machine had, his voice sickeningly sweet, yet flat, as if the heart behind it had long since ceased beating. There was emotion in the phrases, but it was cold, a hollow echo lingering long after the original feeling had died away. Aoba wasn’t speaking to him, to Mink, but to Clear, in a language of twisted love that had been theirs and theirs alone. 

Mink reached down gently to carefully grasp Aoba’s thin, cold fingers where they clutched at his clothing, gently prying them away, a finger at a time. Aoba allowed this for a while, not exactly cooperative but not fighting the treatment, his eyebrows furrowing where they peeked out from above his blindfold. He crawled his fingers up to take hold of Mink’s hand, his own cold digits tracing Mink’s warm, rough ones, leaving chilly trails across the back of Mink’s hands wherever they made contact. 

“These …” Aoba paused, icy fingers tracing the ridges of scars along Mink’s knuckles, “These aren’t Clear’s hands.”

“No, they’re not,” Mink replied gently, voice low and somber. 

“W-whose are they?” Aoba asked, haltingly, his lower lip trembling.

“Mink’s. You remember Mink?”

“Right …he helped me find Granny …”

Mink would be grateful that that would be the first thing to come into Aoba’s mind at the mention of his name, but he couldn’t help but think that Aoba was wrong to do so. Helping Aoba find Tae in no way dwarfed what he’d done before hand … Aoba’s abuse hadn’t begun with Clear, it had begun with Mink. Even if Aoba didn’t remember that, Mink did, and he could never forget, nor apologize enough. 

Aoba seemed to have drifted off somewhere, his mind wandering out of the here and now, where to, Mink could only guess. 

“Aoba?” he called out softly, “Can you hear me?”

The blue-haired boy said nothing, but he nodded his head slowly, carefully, as though it took him great effort not to let his head loll to the side, onto his shoulder. It probably did. 

“May I wrap you back up in the blanket?” Mink asked, though, truth be told, he would have to do so even if the boy said no. Aoba was beginning to go blue with the cold, lying there on a bare floor in a bunker, and whatever reserves of energy he may have had, they had run out. 

From a dungeon cell to a bunker … Mink hadn’t offered the kid much of a step up, had he?

Aoba lolled his head again in another attempt at a nod, though this one didn’t quite succeed, as Aoba found himself unable to complete the motion. Minks grunted a noise of affirmation, realizing that the nodding of his head couldn’t be seen by the boy on the floor. Turning and reaching back towards the cot, Mink caught the edge of the blanket, dragging it off the cot to wrap it around Aoba’s thin, fragile shoulders. The boy seemed to be fading into sleep. 

“May I put you back in bed?”

Aoba responded with another lolling of his head, and Mink reached forward to gently slide his hands around Aoba’s shoulders and under his emaciated thighs. Standing, Mink lifted Aoba’s light form cautiously, as if holding a tray of the finest bone china. In Mink’s arms, Aoba squirmed, nuzzling a sharp, bony cheek into the warmth of Mink’s chest.

“I missed you,” came Aoba’s voice, weak and muffled, little more than a sigh.

Mink knew Aoba couldn’t possibly be talking about him, but he could swear his heart still stopped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I've been gone so long, but I hope this chapter makes up for it in some small part. I intend to try to keep it up, though school may interfere. Thank you for sticking with me! I appreciate every one of you!


	9. Illustration: Eyeless Aoba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all, I ended up doing a couple of illustrations for this fic, so I'll be interspersing text chapters with the occasional illustration chapter. 
> 
> I'm about 500 words into the new text chapter, so hopefully I'll be posting that before too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because, as always, Artemis is the name and shameless self-promotion is the game, I'll also include my commissions email here (for either writing or drawing): artemisgracecommissions@gmail.com  
> And my Twitter: @artemisgraceart


	10. Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aoba appears to be taking a turn for the worse, so Mink goes out to get some more supplies. When he returns, however, Mink finds something that he would not have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, it's been a while. Sorry about that. 
> 
> School, commissions, and health problems have been delaying my own fic writing quite a bit. Thankfully, there's only two more weeks in the school year, and then I'll have much more time on my hands. And we can always hope that the health problems lay off a bit. (Seriously tho, I'm getting really fucking tired of at least one severe illness every 2-3 months).
> 
> Anyway, another chapter of Forget Me Not! And things are (finally) starting to look up.

Which person Aoba would be each time he awoke revealed itself to be a matter of chance more than anything else, something that entirely defied prediction, as Mink came to find. Sometimes it was the man Mink had met once forever ago who woke in his cocoon of sheets upon the cot, broken and solemn, but still a man yet. Sometimes it was the creature, a mass of delusions, madness, and spidery movements, all bound up in a fragile, skeletal shell. 

Mink dreaded the times when the creature awoke in the man’s place. It moved like some hideous ball-jointed doll, his white skin virtually indistinguishable from porcelain, in both its pallid tone and its fragility. The brittle nature of the body was reflected, as in a mirror, by the brittleness of the mind. 

Its voice was a whispery sing song, and it always called out for Clear. To the creature, Clear will never die; he lives on in the scars upon Aoba’s skin, in the bruises that still have yet to heal, in the phantom limbs that Aoba no longer has. The robotic man will never let go, fingers of metal wrapped in artificial flesh gripping tight to Aoba’s unstable mind. No, Clear will not let go. And nor will the creature; it will remain grappled to Clear’s memory, much as a castaway clutches to a floating barrel upon a rocky sea. 

They’ll cling to each other in a tiny white room, wrapped in each other like bricks in an ancient wall bound by ivy, lying together upon a concrete floor in the darkness of the creature’s head. 

Mink could not even hope to count the number of times that he has been called “Clear” in the past few days, for the incidences have been so very many. He couldn’t help but feel just a bit sick to his stomach whenever it happened; what is it about himself that caused Aoba to confuse him with the dead robot? With Aoba’s captor and abuser? Well, Mink could imagine, although he would rather not. The shame of it was all but overwhelming. 

Each day, he reintroduced himself to Aoba, and on some days Aoba remembered him. Most days he didn’t. Most days, he thought Mink was a man raised from a grave of wreckage. 

Aoba called him by Clear’s name so often that Mink occasionally would wake in the pitch-black darkness of midnight, sweating and panting, having spent the past couple of hours dreaming Clear’s own mechanical, robotic dreams. Coming down from the nightmare, sometimes Mink felt as though there were gears grinding out the thoughts in his head, rather than soft flesh inside a carapace of bone. He would wonder if Clear ever thought about that, about the gears and wires that made up his existence, and he wondered if it ever gave Clear the same feeling of shuddering horror that it gave Mink.

What would it be like to know that you were a manufactured being, that everything that you are, your thoughts, feelings, memories, are merely programs written by someone else, for their own means? Perhaps Mink cannot blame Clear for having gone violently insane … 

Some days were easier, the days when the man, Aoba, awoke first. The sorrow of it, the pitiable nature of this sad, decayed form of a man, that Mink could handle much more easily than he could handle the creature’s emotionally unhinged mumbling. The difference was that Aoba was amenable reason, at least to some extent. He could be made aware of his surroundings, even if it sometimes took a bit of persuading on Mink’s part. The creature could not understand, could not react reasonably, because the creature lived in another place and time, in the darkness of a dungeon. It existed in a fog, the stench of bleach overlaying the tang of blood on a concrete floor. No amount of convincing, no effort of Mink’s could bring it into the light, for the darkness was its home now and it was content to remain there. 

The creature, every time it surfaced, made Mink feel entirely helpless. 

He would hold it securely in his arms, gently but firmly, whenever it became a danger to itself with its frustrated thrashing. He would keep it warm and fed, keep its hair from becoming a tangled mess, keep it from messing with its bandages. Above all, he would make sure it slept, because sometimes, when it woke, Aoba would be there. He would care for it, but he could not save it.

He knew that he shouldn’t call the side of Aoba that still lived in the cell in his mind a “creature.” It was a term with which Mink could differentiate between the two Aoba’s that he cared for, but however animalistic or frightening Aoba could sometimes be, he was still just a boy. No creature, not the demon that Mink had believed him to be before the figurative shaking of his foundations that was finding Aoba again in the dungeons of the tower. Aoba deserved Mink’s respect, not merely his pity. He didn’t deserve to be called “creature.”

Mink knew what it was to be trapped in the tower, and, being aware of Aoba’s special ability and how of interest these powers would be to Toue’s deranged experimenters, Mink could be certain that Aoba had gone through worse than Mink had ever seen. That Aoba lived at all now, that he could, upon occasion, come back into himself, into reality, was a feat of incredible strength and courage. Aoba was fighting Toue’s will even now, even after Toue lay dead, his tower in ruins. Even after Aoba himself lay in the ruins of his own body and mind, he fought. And some days, he seemed to win.

Mink did his best to be patient with Aoba, whichever one he found himself dealing with. 

It became a pattern, a series of motions that Mink went through in order to get himself and the shell of Aoba through each day. Mink let the time wash over him like waves in the sea, passive, doing whatever was needed, but not seeking anything more, for there was nothing else to seek. He was content to live like this until Aoba … well, until Aoba didn’t need him. And that looked as though it would come sooner than later, Mink began to think, after Aoba slept for three days straight. 

At first, Aoba had tossed and turned in his slumber, muttering to himself, apparently reliving some private moment of loss, one of such personal monument that Mink felt uncomfortable watching over him. But then Aoba had stopped. He lay still, peaceful as Mink had not yet seen him, and Mink thought that perhaps this was to be the end of their journey together. 

Aoba’s chest barely rose and fell, the movement nigh invisible as he breathed slowly and shallowly. Mink let him sleep, but when mealtime came and went, it became apparent that Aoba would not wake, even as his stomach growled in hunger and his lips cracked with dryness as he began to become dehydrated. 

At this point, Mink undertook another trip to the doctor. Aoba would need an IV, some way for Mink to administer desperately needed fluids while Aoba remained comatose and unable to drink the conventional way. If this was indeed the beginning of Aoba’s life tapering off, Mink would keep him comfortable at least; if he were to die, it would not be of thirst, not so long as Mink is watching over him.

Once again, the doctor had asked no invasive questions, gleaning no knowledge beyond the barest amount necessary to give Mink what he needed, as always, he was discreet to a fault. He hadn’t said much of anything, but as he handed the goods over in exchange for Mink’s envelope packed with cash, his eyes met Mink’s and Mink could see an understanding in them. The doctor didn’t need to ask questions in order to know that things regarding the mystery amputee patient had taken a turn for the worse. If Mink didn’t know better, he might have thought that the man looked at him with pity as he walked back out the doctor’s office door and into the darkened street. If he didn’t know better …

But he did know better. Even if the good doctor has managed to grow some amount of empathy, even if he has developed a properly functioning conscience, he would never let it affect his business. Everyone in this part of town knew better than to let emotion interfere in the pursuit of self-interest. Everyone Mink had known in the last two decades or so had known better. Mink himself had known better, until recently, that is.   
And now, his newly-awakened conscience had tied him to a virtual stranger, one who may yet lay dying in Mink’s old safehouse. Maybe Mink did know better, but he could no longer enjoy the privilege of not caring for others, and he would now ignore the call of ruthless self-interest that had been his drive and most prominent characteristic for many years. The irony of it did not escape Mink. 

He couldn’t help but care.

The alleyway in which he stood was tight and dark, but looking up, he could see the sky and the ocean of stars that twinkle in it. He hadn’t seen the sky in a while, too busy in the bunker looking after Aoba to go outside any more than was absolutely necessary, and the rarity of the sight made it seem almost surreal to Mink, as though the world outside was not quite as real as the cramped, dark little world that he and Aoba now shared. 

Gazing at the glittering specks that littered the heavens, Mink recalled something he’d been told once by a relative. Was it his mother? His grandmother? It was sad to think that he could no longer recall, so distant was the time when he’d heard the story, sitting by the fire as a child, under different stars. Whoever it was, Mink could remember their voice, low and reverent as they told Mink about how every star in the sky was an ancestor, a person who had come and gone before Mink himself, becoming stars as their souls rose into the sky and their bodies returned to the earth. 

Of course, now, the one who had told Mink the tale has long since joined their ancestors in the sky. As Mink would someday. As Aoba might soon do. If those stars could speak to him now, what would they say?   
But no amount of staring and wondering could ever reveal the answer, and Mink had somewhere else to be, so he turned his eyes back down to the earth to which he still belonged and began to walk, long legs carrying him back to the safehouse, back to Aoba. 

As he approached the door, however, Mink began to feel that something was … different. Not wrong, necessarily, but most certainly different. There was nothing wrong with the door, no outward blemish, no evident changes to the surface since Mink had last closed it, no signs of change whatsoever. And yet the feeling still lingered, putting Mink on edge as he crept forward, suspicion slowing his steps as he neared the entryway. Trying the handle, Mink found it to still be locked, just as Mink had left it. No one had entered and Aoba certainly hadn’t left, not that he even could on his own, were even he conscious. 

The absence of evidence to support his notion that something wasn’t right, however, did nothing to dispel the feeling. Something had changed here. It may not have left a mark, but there was something different now from when Mink had gone out to see the doctor. After so long here with Aoba, living in a state of monotony, of purgatory, one might say, the change left Mink feeling extremely uneasy. He gathered himself, muscles tensing, attempting to make ready for whatever may have been lying in wait, and took out his keys, unlocking the door before taking hold of the handle again and twisting, pulling the it open. 

At first, he could neither see nor hear anything amiss, but the room was dark, Mink having not thought to leave a light on in preparation for his return, so not seeing anything amiss did not mean that there wasn’t anything. He strode into the room, making a bee-line for the lamp in the near corner, flicking the light on and squinting at the sudden glare for a moment before his vision cleared and he could at last see the room in its entirety. Something had indeed changed. 

On the cot, Aoba sat upright, and as the light flooded the room, illuminating his emaciated frame and causing Mink to let out a low gasp, the blue-haired man turned slowly, neck craning to look back at Mink with the eyes he no longer possessed. It really did feel to Mink like the man was looking at him, for all he knew that that couldn’t possibly be the case. 

Leveling an eyeless, sightless gaze upon Mink, Aoba spoke, and Mink could tell that Aoba had changed. This was not the shell of Aoba, nor was it the frightening but pitiful creature that he sometimes became. No, this was truly Aoba, in his entirety. As a whole. 

“Hello, Mink,” Aoba addressed him, remarkably calmly, in a croaky but clear voice.

Yes, this was Aoba, the real Aoba, all the broken facets come together to make a fragile, but complete, whole. 

For the first time since Mink had found him in his dismal cell, wrapped in sheets that reeked of bleach and dried blood … Aoba had truly woken up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aoba is awake now, properly awake, and although that certainly does not means that he isn't still traumatized, it does mean that he's finally able to start on the road to recovery. 
> 
> Next chapter will give you a glimpse into what happened in Aoba's mind, unbeknownst to Mink, as Aoba slept. Cuz it's kind of a big deal.


	11. Illustration: Broken Clear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's my second illustration for this fic: Clear's decapitated head.
> 
> So cheery, I know ...

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if this plot has been done before, I sure hope not, or if it has, my rendition will be sufficiently unique. To be honest, the hardest part of this is choosing a title . . . Trying to be all poetic and shit. This is my first fic, please be kind.


End file.
